


A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

by anger_ieJ9



Series: Not the Stories you Remember [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3313487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anger_ieJ9/pseuds/anger_ieJ9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first in a line of Disney AUs: Cinderella. Rogerella, if you will. Steve's mother dies, leaving him with a stepfather that's waiting for his pathetic body to do itself in so he can claim the inheritance. There's a ball, a fairy godfather, and a handsome prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

**Author's Note:**

> I have nieces and nephews that are all very young, and I have watched Cinderella once a week for over two months. This was inevitable.

They brought the unfortunate man in sometime while Steven was working through his own bout of illness. He was sleeping off the milk of the poppy, sweaty and breathing slow. Steven though he was one of the lucky ones, not many people survive losing an arm.

He made his rounds of the sick and feeble, helping them drink and changing the dressings. Mostly they were old or orphans, but there’d been a skirmish in the lowlands a few days east of Lynnbrook. A few of the wounded had made it this far; the friends that carried them slept in the taverns and barns, and there were few Brooks going to complain about the extra coin it got them.

Steven couldn’t say why, but he changed his twice-daily routes so he could end at the far end and sit with the man that lost his arm. He was just as muddy and worn as everyone else, but maybe it was his jawline that seemed so good and trustworthy. Maybe it was his eyes, Steven conceded, that looked just like the sky, that made him want to sit and talk for hours.

 He offered water, but got no response. The man lay, weak, on his unforgiving roost and watched Steven drop the water pail by his palette and settle down beside him. “I don’t know how much you remember,” Steven offered, “I wish I could tell you when you came and how you fair, but I was ill myself when they brought you.” The man said nothing, but his eyes looked Steven over with a look that said he well believed it. “I often am,” Steven agreed.

“What’s your name?” Steven asked. The man’s eyes became hard. He looked to each corner of the room, at every sallow soul that shivered on their own bed; he put no trust in them, his face said. “You don’t need to say. I’ll call you something else.” Steven waited for the man to say any name he chose, but he didn’t speak, only watched. “Bucky,” Steven suggested. It was obvious he thought this was a strange name, but Bucky didn’t argue; he shrugged his one shoulder and looked up at the ceiling. “Are you in pain?” Bucky shook his head once; they both knew he was. “Tired, then. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Bucky closed his eyes, saying maybe, that he didn’t care if Steven did or not. Steven stayed because he liked the company. He leaned away to pick a hunk of charcoal from the dead fireplace; he blew the dust off and scratched it against the cool stone floor. He drew the elegant spires of the castle nestled far off in the distance. He could only see them over the forest when he was up in the tower – hiding away when his body was too weak to carry the pail twice a day. He could see them from his window and he would lie in bed and imagine what living there must be like.

Bucky rolled to his side in an attempt to sit up; Steven realized he’d been talking all his dreams. Bucky looked at the charcoal lines on the floor. He looked up at Steven and smiled. Only one side lifted, as if he was just too weary to smile in full, but Steven thought he must be blessed for the effort. He smiled, too. “This is my mother’s home,” he explained without being asked, waving a hand at the walls around them. Bucky didn’t seem to mind the talking; he lay back and closed his eyes and nodded once. “Was my father’s but he died when I was very young. Mother opened it up to help the less fortunate. She married again, very recently, but I don’t like him.” Steven paused to look about them; he shouldn’t trust all these ears, either. “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” he pleaded with the soldier beside them. The soldier rolled away, uninterested. Bucky almost smiled again. Steven kept on talking until Bucky fell asleep.

Steven stopped at his palette every day. They ate their midday meal together, once Bucky was feeling well enough to sit. Bucky was cold in the eyes and hard around the mouth. Steven hadn’t heard him speak accept for noises he made in fitful sleep. But Bucky would be- not anything like happy but at least softer around the edges while Steven sat and talked. He told stories about the manor, back when it was his father’s money and there wasn’t a war on. He made up stories about the castle and how they’d be if they lived there; these especially seemed to flex Bucky’s face into a sad, weak smile. He told stories about how he got his bruises and scratches, about the struggles he had with the boys that were younger but still taller, stronger, and healthy; these made Bucky frown and flex the muscles of his remaining arm. He didn’t like these stories, but he silently pestered Steven until they were told.

Bucky seemed to like best, as the light came through the windows or when Steven’s mother came around to light the candles, when Steven would use charcoal on the stone floors to draw whatever came to mind. He would clean the floor with water from his pail and wipe it away with his shirt, and Bucky would lie on his side, leaning forward to watch as a horse and rider or the children visible in the next room came to life across the limestone. Steven liked best to watch Bucky’s face. He always looked- not peaceful but less haunted- to see something created. Steven thought, maybe, he had seen many things destroyed.  Steven always left the drawings behind; he didn’t clean them away until they saw each other again and Bucky would prod and poke and point at what he wanted.

Their friendship survived a fortnight before Steven was burdened by a wet cough and a fever that left him shivering and sweating. He lay in his bed and watched the clouds dance above the castle’s peaks. He dreamed and imagined that he and Bucky worked there. Maybe in the kitchens, Steven decided, or the stables. He didn’t realistically suppose Bucky could do much work with his left arm gone, but in his dreams this doesn’t raise an issue. In his dreams they worked hard, but the castle was beautiful and the air was clean, and Steven would draw and teach him how to read. Maybe they both become apprentices somewhere. His mother called the priests when he started smiling through his fever.

This latest bout lasted almost a week. The fever left him first, left him aware and thoughtful but too weak to act; it would be days again before he could retake his daily chores. In the softest hours of the night, when even the saints were dreaming, Steven slumped down the steps of the tower  with a single, stubby candle and shuffled the slim paths between mats and palettes to find Bucky sitting, awake, and watching him. Steven smiled, a weak flex of muscles that could barely say more than ‘I’m alive at least for now.’ Bucky looked and looked with his hard eyes and sighed, finally, in relief. Steven dropped on the palette and reverently placed the candle by his knee. He wedged himself beside his friend, and he, too, sighed in relief.

“I have something special,” he admitted. The stairs and the air did him no good, but his excitement was enough to bolster him. “I’ve been saving pennies for months. The priest was here to see me.” Bucky interrupted to scoff quietly. His face was sternly saying that he knew this and he had worried. Steven waved that expression away. “Everyone’s been thinking for years that I’ll die every time I’m ill, but I think if God wanted me, He’d have taken me already.” He confirmed this by coughing, long and hard until his gut hurt.

“Breathe.” These were the first words Steven had ever heard him say. He stopped coughing only because he was gasping. His voice was soft but deep, like the night outside their candlelight. Steven took his slow breaths and smiled and smiled. Bucky scoffed at him again, and his face called Steven a fool, but when he spoke again he said, “All right, Stevie?” Steven could do nothing but say that he was. Bucky’s face was patiently waiting for him to continue, and it took another set of slow breaths for him realize what Bucky was waiting for.

“Oh! Of course, look,” he said, reaching under his tunic to show a rumpled stack of paper. Some were bent, others torn, and most had smears of ink or at least, imperfections of some kind. “I bought them from the priest. He said the clergy can’t use them for their books if they’re damaged like this, so now they’re mine.” He presented his treasure to Bucky, who looked amazed. Steven thought he knew how Bucky felt; he admitted, “I’ve never drawn on paper before.” Bucky made a noise then, like he might laugh or cry, but Steven wasn’t sure which. “I’ll draw you something. Anything you like,” he offered, “And when you’re all better and leave here, you'll remember me by it.” If he had been given such a gift, Steven would have thought long and hard about it. It wasn’t a gift he meant in lightness, and it wasn’t something he would take for granted. He might have thought for days about it.

But Bucky immediately said, “You.” Steven felt a flush bloom across his cheeks, a feeling very different from the flush of fevers he knew so well. He smiled and smiled and agreed.

“Fine. But drawing on paper must be different from drawing on stone and dirt. I’ll do you first, just to practice.” He plucked charcoal from the fireplace and settled next to Bucky and drew his face and watched him become –not peaceful but less haunted.

 

*

 

Anthony Stark was by no means the worst king the kingdom had seen; he was honest and earnest and brilliant, and that counted for something, at least. He was without competition for being the strangest, though. Virginia waited patiently at the door to the smithy, to where she'd been summoned, while the king up-ended a bucket of water over his head to clean away the sweat and dirt. Anthony gasped at the temperature and shook himself like a mutt.

" Whoo! That's invigorating," he exclaimed as he touched her shoulder. He left behind a damp handprint. "Pepper-"

"My name is-"

"Pepper. I remember," he interrupted, pointing a stern finger that had no affect on her tepid stare, "who's king here. Besides, royalty gives you a nickname, that's gotta get you something." He started to walk away, so she rolled her eyes at his back.

"It gets me a nickname," she replied testily, "I'm not interested in having." His only response was a grin thrown haphazardly over his shoulder while she struggles to keep pace with him across the courtyard. He snapped and pointed a finger into the air: one of his many signs that the subject was changing and his thoughts were already too far ahead to remember what was just said.

"So, how is he? My brother? My heir? The nephew-less uncle to my lack child? Until, of course, you say yes, and then he'll just be-"

"James is still recovering," she informed him patiently, completely ignoring the last sentence. She knew he'd take anything more as an agreement and start pestering her father about a proposal, 'no, don't worry, I'm not interested in a dowry, thanks.' Anthony scoffed.

"Is he? When I was held prisoner-"

"He was in a war, your majesty, and to be completely fair, I don't think you've ever fully recovered." He immediately conceded; he usually did for her.

"That. Is most likely true, but!" he rallied, pointing at nothing again, "at least I come out of my rooms. I'm active. I tinker. I build. I rule. I do the whole meet and greet thing you set up."

"The council?"

"Yeah, that thing."

"Oh yes. Thank you for attending the council meetings. The realm really appreciates it when you show an interest."

"And I do! That's what I'm saying. James doesn't do any of that; he just mopes around. I'm way more recovered than that." She gave him a stern look. She hoped he would feel at least a little guilty, but he hardly noticed.

"Your grace, the only reason you leave your room is to go to the smithy," she reminded him, "and the only reason you leave the smithy is when I drag you out so you can get cleaned up to do the 'meet and greet thing' that I set up for you." Anthony smiled fondly at her, finally stopping long enough to get a good look at her.

"Exactly. I'm so very recovered because I have you here. Your lovely smiling face. Don't frown like that. Fine, frown like that. Your lovely frowning face." She had a response ready on her tongue, but an idea as bright as the sun was visible as it rose across his face. "Pepper, my love, you're a genius. Of course! You're absolutely right. Well, let's do that then." She should have stopped being surprised when he took the conversation five steps ahead without saying any of it out loud, but it caught her off guard every time.

"You know I'm always happy to take the credit of a good idea, your grace; but what are you talking about?"

"What you just said! I have you," he explained in an excited flurry of hand motions, "and he doesn't!"

"You want me to serve your brother? But he has Phil."

"No! No nono. Look, see? I have you, and I'm here in the sunlight, accomplishing goals, ruling a country-"

"Even getting to the point, eventually."

"Yeah, so what does James have? Phil. He has Phil. That is not inspiring. All he needs is his own special..." Anthony's excited prattle jarred to a halt as he lost the words. "You know. You. To get him back to his old self. It'll be easy."

"I almost agreed with you until you said that last part. How? In what way is that easy? You've been trying to get him to marry for years. What, do we just shove him in front of every eligible citizen in the kingdom until he picks one?" Anthony's eyes widened in awe.

"Pepper! Pepper! Have I mentioned you're a genius because you are a beautiful genius. That's exactly what we're going to do."

"What? I was joking!"

"I'm not," he exclaimed with wild eyes. "Do you want to plan it? I want you to plan it."

"Plan what, Anthony?"

"Dear, you know I love it when you use my name."

"I use your name when I'm angry with you."

"I know, and I love it. It shows you really care." Pepper closed her eyes and took a deep breath to stop herself from playing her hand. "Pepper?"

"My name is-"

"We're throwing a ball, Pepper, and everyone is invited."

"All the nobility? Your grace, that's a lot of-"

"No, Pepper. Everyone."

 

*

 

Steven was overjoyed to read aloud the royal invitation. It was on beautiful, perfect paper that had been crisp and clean until his fingerprints smudged dirt on the edges. Just the sort of thing Steven expected from a castle. “What’s a ball?” one of the children asked. She wiped her nose across her hand as she said, “Like a ball to kick around? We’re invited to a ball game?”

“I think it’s like a party,” Steven explained kindly, “Where everyone stands around eating and talking. I bet some of them even dance.”

“That sounds boring. Except maybe the eating.”

“I’ll bet the castle only has all the best foods to eat,” Steven agreed. He smiled down at the paper. ‘Everyone’ it said. Everyone would be there. He wanted to rush up to his tower and hide it with his drawing of Bucky. Maybe Bucky would be at the ball, too. ‘Everyone’ it said. He’d finally get to see the castle; he might even be permitted to go inside. It was his second favorite thing to imagine.

“You do know, they don’t mean you,” his stepbrother said as he grabbed the paper from Steven. The pages would never be crisp again. “What would you do at a royal ball? They’d mistake you for the staff and make you clean their dishes.” Steven didn’t mention that he had dreamed such things before because his stepbrother didn’t intend it kindly. He looked Steven over with a hard face – not hard like Bucky’s face was hard, but hard like a dog trained to attack – and scoffed. “Maybe they wouldn’t. You’re too dirty.” This was probably true. “Besides, who would take care of your rabble while you’re gone?”

“Now, Brock, that’s no way to be,” Steven’s stepfather admonished, “If Steve wants to go, he’s just as much right as you and I.” Both Steven and his stepbrother were shocked to hear him say this. “Of course, you did promise that this sick house was your responsibility after your mother passed. If you can manage all your responsibilities first; if you can make it to the ball afterwards, then of course you have every right to attend.” This addition was of a more familiar trend. Steven was, at the end of every day, so worn and tired he could hardly climb his stairs. There was no doubt in him that his stepfather and brothers would be leaving without a moments wait for him, and he would never have the strength or means to make it there himself.

That night he dreamt himself in the castle. Staggered and awed by the architecture, and finding Bucky along the way. It had been a few years, but in Steven’s dreams Bucky still remembered him. They ate the best food in the kingdom and watched fireworks and heard the king’s speeches. In his imagination, Bucky tells him all the roguish adventures he’d been on since he left: lands and animals that Steven had heard of from traveling monks and bored mercenaries. He woke with a smile on his lips, and when the world settled in around him, he didn’t allow himself to feel disappointment.

Steven’s stepfather and brothers left at midday for the ball, dressed in fine, clean clothes the likes of which Steven would probably never touch. They had fared better through the years than Steven. He knew they watched him like hawks; he was his father’s heir, and when he died, surely any day now, the inheritance would travel to his mother’s second husband, and it was only a matter of waiting for Steven’s sad body to do the work itself. Steven was just as frail and sickly as he'd always been, but he knew there were others more frail and sickly than him. It was his duty to help them, and that was more important to him than dreams and imaginations. So, he resolutely ignored the pity he felt for himself.

That evening, Steven greeted his sickly guests and lit their candles and spoke with them as they all shared bread. There was a knock on the door, and Steven rose to answer it. The man was thin but stout, with thin hair and a thin smile. He wore spectacles and carried a case. “Ah, Stephen,” he said, “You are just the man I was looking for.” Steven looked over his own shoulder to see if there was anyone, a Stephen, for the man to be speaking to. The man scoffed and swatted the air. “Stephen, do you know? Today is very important. Why aren’t you at the Ball?” Steven wasn’t given the chance to answer. The man pulled him out to the empty courtyard and shut the door behind them. “You are meant to be there! There was plan, and you’ve mucked it all up. Now we do this the hard way.”

“Sir, it’s very late. I would never make it in time. And, well, look at me. And who are you?” The man shrugged like it should be obvious, but his thin smile was kind.

“I am your fairy godfather. Call me Erskine,” he explained before frowning a thin frown and shaking his head, “You’re right. You’ll never make it like that. Here.” He set his case down, opened it up, and pulled out a thin stick. He waved it in the air, saying some words Steven didn’t understand ‘Vita’-something. In a flash of light and a swirl of the air, Steven felt the world go so white he fainted. When he came to, colors around him were more vivid and the air was easier to breathe. He climbed to his feet and found it took him no effort at all; the ground was further away than he remember. He looked at his hands and felt strong. He had never felt strength before. His clothes weren’t the ones he’d been wearing before. They were soft and clean, and Steven had never felt anything like it.

“What happened to me? What did you do?”

Erskine looked at him in confusion. “Magic, Stephen. I’m your fairy godfather; what is it you think we do? Now, you can make it just in time! Go now before the spell wears off.” But Steven couldn’t ignore why he hadn’t gone in first place.

“But the sick house, those people. I need to take care of them.” Erskine rolled his eyes, but he smiled again.

“You are good. This is why we help you.” He had to reach up to rest a hand on Steven’s shoulder. Steven wasn’t used to being taller than other people. “I am magic. I do magic. Look what I have done.” He waved his hand at Steven’s new shape. “I can handle this place. You go. You only have until midnight.” With that, Steven had made up his mind. He could feel the force of all his dreams and imaginations glowing in him brighter than the sun setting on the horizon.

“I’m going,” he decided. It made him ache with nerves to say it. “I just need something first,” he added, rushing inside and running up the stairs to his little tower. He wasn’t sweating or out of breath; that had never happened before. He pushed his mattress out of the way and accidentally sent it flying across the room. As delicately as his new hands would allow, he lifted the floorboard that protected his little treasures and took out the battered picture he’d drawn all those years ago. The coal had smudged in places, but Bucky’s face was still clearly there.

Steven folded the paper gently and put it in the pocket of his new clothes. When he returned to the courtyard, Erskine was patting a horse strapped to the front of a small carriage. It hadn’t been there before. Erskine smiled his thin smile and waved Steven closer. “Here you are! Now, inside! Inside!”

“I don’t know how I can thank you for this. This is-“

“You are wasting all this time,” Erskine complained, but the smile hadn’t left his face. “You have important things to do with your life, and they start tonight! It is very important that things go as planned.”

“What plan? I don’t know what I’m meant to do.” Erskine put his hand over Steven’s heart and nodded; it explained nothing, but Erskine didn’t offer anything else. He pushed at Steven until he climbed into the carriage and it whisked him away.

 

*

 

Even from a distance, the castle was majestic. It was enormous. It was so much more than Steven had been capable of imagining. It was perfect. There were throngs of people, spilling from the courtyard, across the bridge, onto the streets. The carriage could only go so far, and Steven had to climb out and walk. With his new legs and strong body, he cut through the crowds, and extra elbows and accidental shoves had no affect when, just hours before, he knew they would have knocked him completely to the ground.

There was music everywhere, and people dancing. People were eating, drinking, and talking. So, Steven had been right about that much when the children had asked about it. He made his way to the castle, crossing the mote and stopping to awe and stare at the tall, white pinnacles of the castle glowing white against the twilight. He was already mapping the drawing in his mind. His memory would have to do; he doubted getting this magical opportunity twice in his life time.

In the courtyard were even more people - cleaner than the ones on the streets, all dancing together in sophisticated patterns. He approached a young lady standing near him, gently asking her attention as he pulled his paper from his pocket.

“Ma’am?” he asked, unfolding the picture, “I’m looking for this man. Is there any way you’ve seen him?” She looked at it with detached curiosity but looked back at Steven in confusion. Almost like she wanted to laugh at a stupid question.

“He’s through there,” she said, pointing her finger up at the castle. That had been easy. He thought he’d spend hours looking, but the first person he asked had recognized Bucky? He wondered if it was luck or more magic. He thanked her and moved on.

This close, this breath-takingly close, the castle was less the illustrious cloud in the distance and more a construction of brick and stone. This made it no less humble in Steven’s eyes, but instead made it a testament of human endeavors; he loved it even more. Inside, the soft candlelight illuminated everything. The bright tapestries and brighter gowns. There was genteel music and the titter of happy conversations. The smells of food and flowers hung politely under his nose, and Steven was sure that after this night he could die in peace under any circumstances.

A man passed by, his dress fine but simple. Everyone else around him was so opulent and intimidating, Steven didn’t think he’d ever get the courage to address one of them, but he gathered himself up with all his awkward dignity and flagged the man’s attention. He smiled with the patience of someone who had other places to be but no intention of saying so. Steven showed him the picture.

“I’m looking for this man. Someone said they saw him here,” he said. The man’s eyebrows spoke volumes in a language Steven didn’t understand.

“I suppose you want to be introduced?” Steven was glad for this new, strong body because his heart would have failed him with all these good things happening so suddenly.

“You know him?” he asked in wonder, “I mean, if you don’t mind? It’s been years, and I –“ The man didn’t interrupt; he just smiled, but it was enough to stop Steven talking.

“Right this way.” Steven was lead into an enormous room that was bright and rich. At the far end was a great dais, where a fine rug lead up the steps to where the king sat. Steven had to remember to take slow, deep breaths. Not only was he in the same city, the same building – he was in the same room as the king! And standing on the stairs before Him was the crown prince – his brother not by blood shared but by blood spilt – who was bowing politely to a woman in a dress red like nothing Steven could have seen with his old eyes. And the man lead Steven down the length of the room to that plush rug closer and closer to the steps and royal family, and Steven was very sure this was some sort of terrible joke.

Prince James laughed a charming sort of chuckle and said, “Phil, I didn’t know you had friends. Who is this?”

“More your friend than mine, sir, I’m sure,” Phil said blithely. Prince James looked at Steven; he looked and looked with his hard eyes, and of course that was Bucky, Steven thought. Of course his Bucky was a prince who lived in a castle. It explained a lot, and Steven felt his cheeks burning with shame. He had talked about his dreams: dreams of seeing this marvelous building of one day earning the chance to work in its lowest places. He’d shared with Bucky the first paper he’d ever bought when the Prince need only to ring a bell and speak. But, at least, the Prince didn’t seem to recognize him.

“Have we met before?” He looked Steven over with a charming grin and crude look in his eye. “I’m sure I would remember the likes of you.” Steven felt his shame multiply. This was not his body; he didn’t know how his face looked. Was it even possible for him to be recognized?

“Sir, I. My- your grace. I don’t. Surely, I didn’t-“ Prince James laughed at his fumbling and descended the last few steps to stand beside him.

“It’s intimidating standing here on display, isn’t it?” he said in confidence, leaning towards Steven and saying more in one breath than Steven had heard him say in all the months that he’d known him as Bucky. “It wrecks my nerves. Here, dance with me,” he suggested, holding out his right hand for Steven to take, who had no choice but to take it and follow.

They joined in with the crowd in the middle of a waltz that Steven had no idea how to imitate. Prince James set his left hand on Steven’s back, and Steven tripped them both in his confusion because Bucky didn’t have a left hand. That was the entire reason they’d met. The Prince’s sleeves were long and so were his gloves, but Steven could feel how different the hands were beneath the gloves were as they tried to catch him and stop them both from falling. He failed, and they tumbled to the ground. This was the sort of terrible luck that Steven was used to having. Tripping the crown prince? He almost felt more comfortable in his new skin for all the embarrassment it gave him. This was the sort of life he was familiar with.

The crowd around them stopped dancing; the music deflated; and the room stilled to hushed silence. The Prince fell across Steven with his arms pinned beneath his body. He struggled and wiggled but gave up almost immediately for laughing. Laughing hard and deep, Bucky’s breaths were hot against Steven’s neck, and the sound filled him up better than all his dreams and imaginations. “If you wanted me on top of you, all you had to do was say,” the Prince said cheekily. Steven felt his face burn again.

“No! I – Of course I didn’t mean, I mean, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to. Sorry.” Bucky laughed again and clamored gracelessly to his feet. He didn’t seem to notice all the people watching them as he helped Steven stand beside him.

“You obviously can’t dance.” Steven agreed. “Come with me, then, we’ll find something safer,” he suggested. From the corner of his eyes he saw the king happily and repeatedly patting an unimpressed woman on the arm. Steven took the offered hand and followed. Slowly, awkwardly, the music and conversation began again with a weak crescendo. Steven clasped Bucky’s left hand gently; whatever was beneath the silk glove was solid and unforgiving. It couldn’t be natural flesh, but Steven thought if magic could make his body like this- so that he was having to look down at Bucky’s hard eyes and soft smile- then why couldn’t it give Bucky his hand back? Steven was happy for that. He hoped it was permanent and not like his own midnight deadline.  

Prince James dragged him out of the enormous room and down elegant hallways and up massive staircases until the crowds around them trickled away to empty corridors. Steven asked, “Where are we going?” but Bucky didn’t answer except to smile; when he spoke he ignored it completely.

“Where are you from?” Steven wasn’t sure how to answer that. He mumbled and stuttered which made Bucky’s smile get softer.

“It’s not terribly far away,” he said at last, “I can see the highest towers from my window.” The prince gave him a thoughtful look, but didn’t say more about it. Instead, he stopped them in a grand hallway that Steven couldn’t tell apart from any other they’d been through. He opened a door and ushered Steven through. It was a gallery. There were paintings and sculptures placed strategically throughout the room, specifically he was sure, to overwhelm him.  “Oh. Oh my,” he whispered to himself, dragging himself in front of piece after piece as if he were sleeping walking. Bucky followed close behind him, rubbing at his left arm as if he were embarrassed.

“I never used to be interested in this sort of thing. My brother,” he stopped to correct himself, “You know Tony isn’t actually my brother?” Steven nodded dreamily, barely looking away from the portrait of a young girl to let Bucky know he was listening. “He collects these sorts of things for Pepper, trying to impress her. Which doesn’t work at all. After I came home, actually before I came home,” he rambled in a nervous tone. Bucky had hardly talked, but the Prince sounded just as frayed and nervous as Steven had been at the bottom step of the dais when they’d been surrounded by eyes. “Before I came back, I met someone that – I never used to care about this sort of thing, but since I returned I come here all the time. I never appreciated art, and I wish I had. It’s always quiet in here, and all these things,” he gestured at the room and now Steven couldn’t stop staring at Bucky and his hard eyes and his hard jaw and his soft voice, “that people created from nothing with just their hands. I find my peace here.” The Prince admitted this with blush across his cheekbones and his eyes on the floor.

“I used to dream about coming here to the castle and seeing how great it must be with my own eyes, weak as they were.” Steven admitted dreamily, “This is better than anything. This is beautiful. Thank you.” He wanted to look at each one, to memorize them all so he could recreate them on his own. He could make the cold walls of his tower into his own gallery, and every face would be Bucky’s.

They walked the room together, discussing the paintings and their histories and techniques. They chatted and made jokes, and the Prince wasn’t like the Bucky he remembered, but was, he thought, like a new man built from those ashes. He hadn’t been on grand adventures like Steven had imagined, but the Prince laughed sometimes, and Steven hadn’t ever heard Bucky laugh. He loved this new man just as much as the one he had known.

When they were making a second circuit of the room, when their laughter had dwindle to a comfortable silence, Prince James smiled at him, just the weak twitch of one side of his mouth. “You remind me of him.” Steven’s heart tripped over itself. Did that mean Bucky recognized him? He reached into his pocket for the drawing he had done all those years ago. He wondered if Bucky still had his. 

“Who?” Steven asked innocently, but before he had a chance to answer they were interrupted by the bell tower calling out the top of the hour. “What time is it?” Steven asked frantically. He hadn’t been paying attention to the time.

“I think that’s midnight. Why?” Erskine hadn’t explained what would happen at midnight, only that the spell would expire. Steven thinks he probably should have left a long time ago, but he’d been having the best night of his life; he hadn’t wanted it to end. Now, though, he didn’t have a choice. He rushed for the door.

“I have to go.”

“What? No, please!” Prince James pleaded, grabbing his hand. “Stay just a little longer.” Steven looked back as the bell continued to chime. Bucky’s eyes weren’t hard; they were as soft and desperate as the curve of his frown. “I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I have to go!” Steve wrenched his hand free and turned to run. He didn’t notice the Prince’s shock or that he’d dropped his paper.

“Stevie?”

But Steven didn’t have time turn back. The bell chimed as he burst through the door, and chimed as he ran down the hall, and gave its fine chime and in a flash of light and a swirl of the air, Steven felt the world go so white he fainted. He didn’t wake until morning, lying on his little mattress in the tower; he watched the sun rise over the castle. Bucky remembered him. Bucky was the heir to the kingdom, which was not something Steven had prepared himself for, but Bucky had remembered him. Steven smiled all morning, even though his body was small and frail, even though it hurt to breath, even though he couldn’t leave his bed for all his coughing.

 

*

 

Phil Coulson enjoyed his work. He took pride in his work. Yes, he was a servant, but his grandfather had been a pig farmer on the edge of the map; his family come all this way in two generations. He was proud of himself. He didn’t fulfill his duty out of a sense of obligation, either; he enjoyed the people he worked with. He enjoyed the privileges he received for his position. He also enjoyed the crown prince, which, he was sure, was what surprised people.

Phil had seen Ms. Potts at the end of her day being the valet of his majesty, and he was grateful every day of Prince James’ more sedate lifestyle. Phil knew his responsibilities for the day before the day even began, and there were never any surprises.

That being said, Phil had not been excited about inviting the entire kingdom to the capitol just to find the prince a suitor he wasn’t immediately rude to – as had been the case with all of the king’s previous attempts. Not to say they weren’t amusing. It was a horrible idea, and he was convinced from the moment Ms. Potts had told him the news that it was going to fail. But, of course, then there’d been that man with the picture. The prince had bloomed through the night into the charming, carefree man none of them had seen since before the war. Which made it that much harder to watch him wilt when the man had disappeared.

But not without a trace, Phil thought, because if there hadn’t been a trace they’d have all given up then. They would have said “that’s too bad. Sorry about that. You’ll find someone else,” and moved on. But there were traces. He could see the castle from his window, so he couldn’t be too far off. He could draw a person’s face as if it were a reflection. A lot more than nothing, but still so far from useful.

 Phil didn’t envy Ms. Potts having to tell the king what had happened last night, but he imagined she didn’t envy him, either. Not when he’d been ordered to go house to house in search of this mysterious man going on nothing more than that. He had the aid of having met him, if only briefly, and had seen the artistic skill with his own eyes. The drawing was telling on its own, besides: there was only one point in all that Phil had known the Prince when his hair had been so long.

Phil let the footman pound on the door as he descended the carriage. They were greeted by a thick stink and then by an old man with a sour face that brightened considerably when he saw them. The footman read the royal proclamation. Phil had been hearing it all night and morning and day, and he let himself catch another two and a half minutes of sleep – standing with eyes open.  He woke himself up in time to be lead indoors.

When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Phil understood the smell. “You run a sick house.” The man had an odd look in his eye but a smile on his face as he agreed.

“Please, come upstairs. Our apartments are separate and much more comfortable,” the man said, leading the way. The landing at the top had two doors: behind the left Phil could hear coughing that made his own ribs ache in sympathy. The man opened the door on the right; the space was light, open, and clean. The furnishings were a far shade nicer than the ground floor’s. He was offered a seat and a cup of tea, just like he’d been at each residence so far. He accepted the first but denied the second.

“I’d like to get straight to the point. Your family was at the king’s ball last night, Mister…?”

“Pierce,” the man provided, “Yes, we were there. It was a lovely evening. We were honored to be invited.”

“Don’t be. Literally everyone was.” Phil watched the man’s face hardened and pretended not to notice. “But you understand why it was planned in the first place?”

“The King adopted his squire as his brother because he didn’t have an heir, and he needs Prince James to be married.”

“James was raised in the castle; they were childhood friends. He was knighted well before we went to war. He saved the King from capture and was severely injured in the process. The King doesn’t need Prince James to married,” Phil explained sharply, “He’s deeply, emotionally invested in his friend’s happiness.” Pierce had the appropriate look of contrition. “Last night, I’m sure you saw, Prince James made his decision, and now we’re seeking him out.”

“And what do you know about him?”

“We know he has an unrivaled artistic skill, something I’ve seen firsthand. You have sons?” Pierce said he had. “If you think it’s possible one of them may be the one we’re looking for, I’d like to meet them.” Pierce was on his feet and calling for his sons who answered right away. They must have been waiting on the stairs.

“These are my sons,” Pierce said, introducing each of them, “Brock and Jasper. Boys, you remember last night don’t you? Prince James is looking for his mysterious, artistic beau. Brock, why don’t you go next door to your studio, hm? And show the prince’s valet your work?” This was the same sort of script Phil had heard at each homestead since he started out. He wondered if he could get another few minutes of wide-eyed sleep. The burly, surly son disappeared immediately and returned just as quickly.

The paper was terrible quality, the etchings weren’t done by pen or pencil, but they were clean and well-practiced. One picture of a cow and her calf. Two of the castle, far in the distance. The last three were portraits; one only half-complete but he recognized it from the royal gallery. Phil’s exhaustion was brushed aside by a thrill. He hadn’t wasted an entire night and day because here it was: this was what he’d been looking for. Phil smiled and said, “Perfect. That’s just perfect. You drew these?” Brock smiled.

“I did. This one, I just started this morning,” he explained, pointing to the incomplete portrait, “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to finish it. It’s from-“

“I know what it is,” Phil interrupted, “It’s fine it isn’t finished. I know who it is.” He motioned to the footman, who set his case on the table and started to set up. “This work is very impressive. Do you have formal training?” Brock smiled proudly and flexed his muscles.

“No formal training, but I’ve been practicing my entire life.” His brother rolled his eyes discreetly, but Phil didn’t miss it.

“So you won’t mind a little audience, would you?” Brock look confused. “I’ve never seen talent like this performed. You wouldn’t mind if I watched, would you? As you draw, say, Prince James? I’d liked to see that, I think, the way he looked the first time you met him.” Father and son both turned pale.

“Now surely that’s not necessary,” Pierce intercepted. “You can see that’s his work, can’t you? How many people can say they’ve seen the royal gallery?”

“Anyone that asks to see it,” Phil replied flatly, “It’s not a private room.” None of them spoke again, they stared each other down in spurs of silent conversation, and Phil was happy to wait it out. He fell asleep again. Brock finally sat where the footman had laid out fresh paper, pencils, and tools. There was a line of sweat on his brow as he lifted the pencil awkwardly and started to make lines. If Phil hadn’t been able to tell before, it was well apparent now that this wasn’t the one he was looking for. “That’s enough. Is there anyone else?” Pierce said in a blistering tone that there wasn’t, but Phil didn’t get to where he was in life by being intimidated. “I want the one who drew these. Don’t lie to me again,” he warned, “Lying to the royal emissary is a punishable crime.”

“They’re mine!” Jasper shouted after a lofty silence and just before there was a weak knocking on the door. “They’re mine,” he said again, calmer but louder. “I was embarrassed for running out; I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Well, try if you like,” Phil suggested with a careless wave toward the paper. “Aren’t you going to answer the door?” Pierce gave the room a stiff, grudging look but did as he was bid. On the other side of the door was a short, scrawny man propped against the door jamb, his fist raised against the door. He might have been beating with all his strength, but it had only sounded as a gentle knocking with how weak he looked. Phil recognized the harsh coughing from the closed door across the landing at the top of the stairs.

“What are you doing up here?” Pierce asked the sick man, “You know the sick are meant to stay downstairs. You don’t want to go spreading your cough to the prince’s valet. That’d be shameful.” The small man’s eyes brightened when they found Phil across the room.

“Oh, you!” he exclaimed, pulling himself into the room. Phil felt as if he’d heard that voice before. He turned to the brother that was trying to draw.

“You, get up. You’re done.”

“But I only-“

“Now.” Jasper jumped from his seat and moved away. He moved away from his father’s disappointed scowl, too. On the page was certainly an image of Prince James, but it lacked the depth and finesse that Phil was seeking. The son had skill, but obviously no natural inclination. “Sir,” Phil said, holding up the stack of papers he’d been handed, “did you draw these?” The man was already flushed, probably a fever, but he dipped his head and nodded meekly.

“I buy paper scraps from artisans passing through. They’re just simple sketches for practice.” The brothers sneered at him for his nonchalance.

“They’re incredible,” Phil corrected him. The invalid bashfully scratched behind his ear. “Have a seat.” He did. “Have you met Prince James?” he asked. The invalid nodded enthusiastically. Phil smiled again without intending to. “He’s sent me looking for someone specifically. You know what I’m talking about?” He nodded again. “Good. I want you to draw something for me.” He looked up at Phil in confusion before bending over his knees to accommodate a coughing spell. Phil waited it out.

“What do you want me draw?” the invalid asked.

“What’s your name?”

“Steven.”

“Steven, draw the prince the way he was the first time you met him. Is that possible?” Steven nodded eagerly. He picked up the pencil and inspected it with wonder.

“I’ve never used one of these before,” he admitted, “It might not turn out so well.”

“Give it your best try,” Phil encouraged. It took Steven less than a few minutes to scratch out a rough outline. A generous few more to add in details. He scrubbed in shading with his little finger. It was rough and fast, but the image was clear and unforgiving. Phil could easily recognize Prince James, his face scrunched up in pain, long hair stuck by dirt and sweat to his brow and neck, a blank space where an arm should be. It answered a lot of questioned Phil had never had the courage to ask. His search was done. He almost hugged Steven in relief. “Perfect,” he said again, before Steven had been given the time to finish. “You’re the one.”

“Yes. I know, I look a bit different,” Steven admitted with a wry smile that made Phil laugh.

“You might not have made it if you didn’t. Would you like to come with me back to the castle?” Steven’s eyes light up with hope. “Do you have anything you need to pack?” And here Steven hesitated.

“Those people downstairs are my responsibility. I need to take care of them.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you look like you can hardly take care of yourself.” Steven’s brows furrowed like he wanted to argue. “Don’t worry about that. I know some people; we’ll handle it.” Steven accepted that answer and smiled.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

 

*

 

Steve’s donated his home to the State; Phil transformed it into a proper hospital with a doctor, an apothecary, and a priest. Alexander and his sons were forced to leave the home, receiving no inheritance from his late wife. 

The wedding was a few weeks after. The sunny shone bright, and there were no clouds in the sky. The heat of the day made the ceremony quick, but the festivities lasted until well after night came. Steve and Bucky spent most of that time exploring the castle, not at all interested in feasting or dancing. Anthony was more than willing to fill the void of their public absence.  

There were fireworks once the sun set. Steve could hear the explosions, even with his good ear pressed against Bucky’s shoulder. They sat together on a bench in the gallery, quiet and happy on Steve’s first night living in the castle he’d always dreamed about. He didn’t even have to work in the stables, Bucky reminded him. Steve swatted at him, but it was weak and ill-aimed.

“You’re a real jerk,” Steve informed him.

“I guess you should have known that before you said yes.”

“Oh no! Is it too late to go back?” Steve whined. Bucky grabbed him by the waist and tickled him.

“It’s too late,” Bucky cried victoriously, “You’re stuck with me for life.” Steve looked up at his hard eyes and his hard jaw and smiled and smiled at his wide-open grin.

“I must be the luckiest one in the whole world.”


End file.
